Have You Been A Good Boy, John?
by MargyW
Summary: John is regressed to the mental age of a toddler after being the guinea pig in a drug cartel's experiments. Sherlock finds himself with custody of his best friend who thinks he is his daddy. Rated T for drug references, language and the non sexual spanking of an adult.


Sherlock paced the hospital corridor restlessly. Why wouldn't they let him in? When the drug cartel they had been tracking had kidnapped John, Sherlock had had to swallow his pride and call Mycroft for help. When they had eventually found John he had been drugged and was unconscious. Sherlock had been nearly frantic with fear. Mycroft had stepped in, whisking them both away to one of the top secret special clinics that his people used.

Sherlock span on his heel at the sound of a door opening. Mycroft and the doctor that he had called in came towards him. "He's awake, Mr Holmes…"

Sherlock raced down the hallway and into the room. John was sitting up in the bed, gazing around him with a small amused smile on his face. He turned his body in the bed as Sherlock entered.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He was all right. "John…"

A beaming grin spread across John's face. He held his arms out to Sherlock. "Daddy!" he squealed delightedly.

"Oh fuck!"

"Such language in front of a child!" Mycroft tut tutted behind him.

Sherlock whirled round, his coat swishing like a super hero cape. In the bed, John clapped his hands in glee. "What happened? I know they drugged him? But with what?"

The doctor, who was standing beside Mycroft, his hands in the pockets of his white coat, sighed. "We're still running tests, Mr Holmes. We don't know what it is, but from what we can tell it's temporarily cut off access to his adult memories and vocabulary. A few days, or a week at most, and the neural pathways should have reasserted themselves."

"Until then?"

Mycroft smirked. "You have custody of a 5 foot 7 inch tall toddler who thinks you're his daddy."

**221B BAKER STREET**

As soon as they entered the flat, John scooted towards the TV and sat down on the floor, looking up at Sherlock hopefully. Sherlock found the remote and, wincing, turned the television on to a channel showing cartoons. John turned his attention to the TV, giggling and clapping his hands at the antics on the screen.

Sherlock watched him, a bemused expression on his face. He really didn't know how he was going to cope with this. His best friend reduced to the mental level of a three year old. Hell, Sherlock didn't even know what you pressed to make a three year old work. The mysteries of child rearing had never been archived in his Mind Palace. There were memories of a few comforting cuddles from Mycroft, the odd tantrum, the occasional spanking, and a one-eared toy rabbit named Fluffypops, that were stored in an alcove, and that was about it.

Mrs Hudson tapped on the door, coming in with several bags of groceries. "How is he?"

Sherlock looked at her. She smiled gently, "Mycroft called in to warn me about John's condition." She waved the grocery bags. "I went and got a few things that might tempt a toddler to eat, plus a few other things you might need."

Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a warning look. "No experiments, Sherlock. We can't have John eating something poisonous."

"I'm not going to have time to experiment. Looking after John is going to be a full time occupation."

John looked up at the sound of his name. He beamed at Mrs Hudson. "Nana!" he announced.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, John. That's your nana."

Mrs Hudson's cheeks went pink. "Oh you. That's so sweet." She walked over to John and bent and gave him a hug. He wrapped his arms around her legs and buried his face in her skirt. "Now, would my lovely boy…" she looked at Sherlock, "…my lovely boys, like something to eat?"

"Yes, please." Sherlock replied fervently. He wasn't much of a cook and the idea of having to cook for himself and John scared him a little.

"Go and get John washed up, and I'll get you some dinner."

"You're a treasure, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson flapped a hand at him and disappeared into the kitchen with her grocery bags.

Twenty minutes after a battle over washing hands, Sherlock and John were tucking into a hearty beef stew which Mrs Hudson had just happened to be cooking when Mycroft called. Sherlock wasn't particularly hungry, but Mrs Hudson had taken the opportunity to point out that he needed to set John a good example by eating all his food. At the back of his mind Sherlock was well aware he was being manipulated by the cunning old lady, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Mrs Hudson ruffled John's hair as she took his empty plate away. "You're a good boy, eating all your dinner." John beamed at her. "Good boys deserve ice cream." She placed two bowls of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce in front of them. Sherlock ate his quickly and neatly, then watched with amusement as John proceeded to lick both his bowl and his spoon clean. There was chocolate sauce and melted ice cream all over John's face. Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture. Sherlock wanted evidence, just in case John didn't remember his time as a toddler. This would be the first of many photos to prove to John exactly what had happened.

"Time for a bath before bed." Sherlock announced, with a barely concealed grin.

The look John shot him was faintly rebellious. "Don't wanna bath." The look was spoiled slightly by the chocolate sauce running down his chin.

Mrs Hudson produced a yellow rubber duck from one of the bags. John pounced on it with a squeal of glee. Mrs Hudson smiled at Sherlock. "I found toys made bath time much more agreeable."

John had, it seemed, also forgotten how buttons, zips and shoe laces worked. Sherlock found himself in the embarrassing position of stripping his friend and coaxing him into a bath full of Mrs Hudson's favourite rose scented bubble bath.

Sherlock, who was so fond of empirical evidence, discovered that it is impossible to bathe a man who is mentally a toddler, without getting absolutely soaked to the skin. He looked down at the ruin of his dry clean-only Spencer Hart suit with a rueful expression. This was going to be a very long, very trying, experience.

John, meanwhile, was completely oblivious. He happily batted at the little yellow duck bouncing on the rose scented foam. It would have been an endearing sight, if Sherlock wasn't so worried about his friend.

"Come on, John, time to get out."

"No!" John slammed his fist into the water sending a plume of rose foam over Sherlock's head. Sherlock merely reached into the bath and pulled out the plug. John began to cry, the banshee howls of a very upset toddler. "Shit," Sherlock muttered. It appeared that John had been something of a brat as a small child.

From outside the bathroom Mrs Hudson called out, "It's alright, John dear. You can have a nice cup of cocoa, and daddy will read to you until you go to sleep."

John's crying cut off abruptly.

Sherlock stuck his head out the door. "Read him what, exactly?"

Mrs Hudson smiled at him. "I bought a nice book he'll enjoy."

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock had managed to insert a squirming John into his pajamas, feed him a cup of luke-warm cocoa and a biscuit, and had him tucked into bed. Having read to him, Sherlock sat on the edge of John's bed, "The Little Red Hen" lying closed in his lap. He leaned forward and brushed a stray lock of hair from John's forehead. John wiggled and murmured in his sleep. Sherlock just watched him lying there, a teddy bear courtesy of Mrs Hudson clasped in his arms. Slowly, Sherlock got up, bent and placed a kiss on the top of John's head, and left the room, turning off the light, and closing the door behind him.

Back downstairs Sherlock slumped in his chair, the book dangling from his hand. He was wet through and his hair was liberally decorated with drying soap suds and talcum powder. Sherlock was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door open.

"How is our little John coping?"

"Damn it, Mycroft!" Sherlock nearly leapt straight of his chair in shock.

"Sorry. I really should have realized you would hide in your Mind Palace."

"I wasn't hiding. What I am is exhausted." Sherlock slumped in his chair again.

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully as he sat in John's chair. "Small children can be so trying."

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"We have the chemist who created the drug. He is being…" Mycroft paused for a moment, before adding, delicately, "…extremely helpful."

Sherlock gave a short bark of angry laughter.

"He hasn't, however, provided us with an antidote. The drug will wear out of John's system, but he couldn't tell us a time frame." Mycroft sighed, "Apparently John was their guinea pig."

"Guinea pig." Sherlock's tone was flat and furious.

"Trust me, little brother, he is well away of what I think of his experimentation." Mycroft's tone was grim. Sherlock had no doubt that there would be very little of the unfortunate chemist left to bury after Mycroft's people were through with him. Mycroft never said anything, but he was almost as fond of John as Sherlock was.

At that moment a frightened wail came from upstairs. Both men looked up in alarm. Mycroft looked at his brother. "It appears that John is afraid of the dark."

Sherlock got to his feet and shot upstairs. He could hear the wild sobbing from John's room. Sherlock threw open the door and switched on the light. John hurtled out of the bed and into Sherlock's arms. "Monsters," he sobbed, "Under the bed."

Sherlock patted his back, cuddling him close. He remembered similar nightmares from his own childhood, and Mycroft holding him and patting him. "It's all right," he soothed, "You can sleep in my bed. No monsters under there."

John sniffed, pulling back enough to rub his right eye with his right fist. "Sleep with you?" He asked hopefully, in a small voice.

Sherlock nodded. "You can rest on the sofa until I'm ready for bed." John nodded and clutched Sherlock's hand with one hand, and his teddy bear with the other, as Sherlock led him downstairs. He froze in the doorway when he saw Mycroft. John dropped Sherlock's hand and hugged the teddy bear defensively against his chest, pressing against Sherlock's side.

"It's okay," Sherlock said softly. "Uncle Mycroft has come to visit daddy. Go and curl up on the sofa." John padded past Mycroft and curled up on the sofa, never taking his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock picked up his violin, ignoring his brother, and began to play lullabies. Mycroft watched silently for a few moments, smiled to himself, and took his leave.

Sherlock played until he saw the tension ease of out of John's frame. Smiling, he put down the violin and reached out his hand. "Come on, time for bed." Yawning deeply, John staggered off the sofa and clutched at Sherlock's hand as he was lead down the passage to Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock guided the now damn near sleepwalking John into his bed. He stripped off his wet suit, dumping it in the corner, before dragging on clean pajama pants and a t-shirt, and climbing into bed beside John. As soon as Sherlock was settled, John scooted across the bed and wrapped himself around him. "Love you, Daddy." He murmured sleepily. "Love you."

Sherlock choked up. He looked down at his friend. Gently he ghosted a hand through John's hair. "I love you too, John."

With a contented sigh, John snuggled closer and promptly went to sleep. Sherlock lay awake staring at the ceiling until he finally gave in to his exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep.

**NEXT MORNING**

When Sherlock awoke he was alone. A less than rhythmic banging noise was coming from somewhere close by. Jumping out of bed, he grabbed his dressing gown and headed towards the source of the noise. He stopped dead at the entrance to the living room, mouth falling open in shock.

John sat in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by every pot and pan they owned, happily banging away on them like a one-man percussion group. The noise was awful.

It was pretty obvious that this little musical venture was the last in a long line of early morning mischief on John's part. Papers and books were scattered over the floor. A glance through into the kitchen showed that the bag of toes that Sherlock had been experimenting on had been removed from the fridge and the toes arranged in an abstract pattern on the floor. With the blood and other fluids swirled around them, it looked like an extremely bizarre take on finger painting.

"John!" Sherlock yelled. "What have you done?"

John stopped banging on his improvised percussion section and looked up at Sherlock. Deep blue eyes widened as he took in Sherlock's body language. Sherlock could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. 'Daddy's cross. Make daddy uncross.' The eyelids fluttered and John put his most charming expression on. "Daddy play?" If Sherlock hadn't been so shocked at the mess he would have laughed at John's almost guileless attempt to manipulate.

Sherlock kept his voice stern. "John. Clean up this mess."

A storm started brewing in John's eyes and his lower lip trembled. "No! Won't! Wanna play!"

"John," Sherlock's tone was warning.

"NO!" John launched himself into a full on tantrum. Throwing himself full length on the floor, he began to kick his feet and bang his fists against the floor. "No, no, no, no no, nooooooooo." His voice was escalating into a fully fledged wail of fury.

Sherlock stepped forward, dodging the flailing limbs, reached down and grabbed John by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants and hauled him to his feet. A startled John paused mid tantrum, giving Sherlock just enough time to seat himself on the couch and haul John across his lap.

John let forth an indignant yowl as Sherlock's hand connected firmly with his upturned backside. He twisted and squirmed but was unable to break free from the firm grip holding him in the embarrassing position. Sherlock continued to spank John whilst scolding him. "Do as you are told. No tantrums. No screaming. Behave yourself."

"Ow! Fuck! Sherlock! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Spanking you, what do you…." Sherlock paused, hand raised in the air, as the words sank in.

John twisted free and landed on the floor with a thump. He sat on the floor looking up at Sherlock, irritation and puzzlement showing on his face.

Sherlock stared at him. John stared back. Sherlock leaned forward and grasped John's face in both hands. "You're back. It's really you."

"Of course it's me. And I haven't been anywhere."

"Yes you have." Sherlock paused. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked carefully.

John frowned. "We were chasing down that drug cartel. I got grabbed by a couple of thugs." He paused, a frown forming between his eyebrows. "If I got grabbed by thugs, what am I doing home? And why were you spanking me?" After years of living at 221B Baker Street, John had got used to believing in six impossible things before breakfast. Missing memories and returning to the present to find himself arse up being spanked by his best friend didn't even cause a blip on John's personal radar.

Sherlock leaned back with a sigh. "That is a long story, John." He couldn't conceal a happy grin. John was back. Soon Sherlock would show him the photos of his time as a toddler, but for now, he was just relieved that his closest friend was back with him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Why is there a teddy bear on the sofa, and a copy of 'The Little Red Hen' on the floor beside your chair? And what the fuck is this mess on the kitchen floor?"

**AUTHORS NOTE: This was originally conceived as a companion piece to "Great White Holmes", but it headed into deeper and darker waters than I had anticipated. However, you go with what the Bunny Gods send you, otherwise they may not send you any more plot bunnies.**

**My thanks go to Rebecca, Andrea and Gail who provided valuable input and criticism.**

**The toes are for Amanda.**


End file.
